


Amor Sine Peccatorum Remissione

by Linane



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Having said that: I regret nothing, If you're particularly sensitive to any of the above, Incest, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Characters, Period-Appropriate Violence, Religious Themes, The Borgia AU, this one is perhaps not for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23141719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/pseuds/Linane
Summary: Written for WinterFRE 2020, prompt: 51. FiKi - The Borgia AU (With their uncle vying for the papacy, his limitless greed isn’t even the family’s darkest secret; incest is.)
Relationships: Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 42
Collections: GatheringFiKi - Winter FRE 2020





	Amor Sine Peccatorum Remissione

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlmarvel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarvel/gifts).



> Secretly for Damnitfili, because this just has ‘Erica’ written all over it. She is very spoiled recently.
> 
> This story comes with a [theme song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V2el6KUDEX8).

“Forgive me brother, for I have sinned.”

Fili twitches in the confessional, but doesn’t deny him, simply adding blasphemy to the list of Kili’s sins. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last, but with sins such as Kili’s it’s perhaps for the best that they stay within the family.

“How long since your last confession?”

“Three days.”

“And how have you offended God since?”

A breath, slow and shaky in the sacred silence between them.

Fili closes his eyes for a moment. Convention dictates that the confessor can be watched, but he is not to look directly at the sinner. He turns his head and meets his brother’s steady gaze head on.

Within those hazel depths the fires of hell await.

\---

“I have been proud.”

\---

“You’re a son of a whore, Borgia!”

Kili draws before he can fully process what he’s doing. It isn’t even about the insult itself; it’s about empowerment. He’s been on the receiving end of such words ever since he can remember, but he’s not a defenceless child anymore.

He’s Kili Borgia – a nephew to one of the most powerful and wealthy cardinals in Rome, a son to a fearless mother and a Commander to all of Rome’s armies. And if he can’t be respected, _by God_ , he will be feared.

A strike, lightning-fast, because he’s learned his reflexes from Fili, two-step, three-step, parry, spin. He settles his weight lower and circles the bastard, resolved to make it into a lesson. Defend, defend, dance away, cut low and vicious –

Point for Kili.

A howl of pain and another epithet he doesn’t care for –

Parry, parry, strike, sidestep, parry again –

He almost trips over some God-forsaken rag, can feel himself creating an opening with the wild flailing to find his balance –

Steel meets steel. A dagger stops the blade aimed at his chest.

“ _Fili,_ “ he growls, tries to push past him –

He’s spinned, then tripped and he _knows_ that one, but somehow his sword still ends up in Fili’s hand all the same.

“Desist, _signore_.” Cold, and those who know Fili, know also of his brewing fury.

But the man is a fool, has been a fool since the start.

Fili attacks and then again, not bothering to parry, only dancing away when he has to. Another clash, a firm block to a wild stab at his ribs, a little flick of the wrist and the sword changes hands.

Oh yes, the Lion in Black is ambidextrous.

It _always_ throws them.

“He’s _mine_ ,” Kili spits out before it’s too late, charging past his brother, both his daggers drawn.

It’s the whizz that stops him, and that too he’s learned around Fili.

The throwing knife sails right past his ear, embedding itself in a wooden post and a inflicting a shallow cut to their opponent’s neck.

Fili gets there first, _just_.

“Take it back or I will gut you,” he says calmly.

“Fili, _fuck!_ ”

“She’s not a whore,” the man wheezes.

“He was _mine_!” Kili rages.

“ _Who’s_ not a whore?”

“Y- Your mother!”

Finally satisfied, Fili pulls his knife free, if a bit forcefully, opening the wound further. He doesn’t forgive any quicker than anyone else in their family.

“Did I ask you to stick your _fucking_ cock in my –“

He’s ready this time for the blindingly quick attack that follows, parries both blows, if narrowly, and yanks them both into a dark side street, where Fili won’t be able to show off any more.

“Do you know what day it is?!” Fili hisses in his face.

“I can fight my own battles!”

“It’s the twentieth day of the Conclave! They will vote in _two days_!”

Oh, he’s angry still, but angry is how Kili likes him. “Surely then, a little _respect_ wouldn’t go astray.”

“And what if that was Orsini’s man? Or Versucci’s?! Do you have any idea how much that could cost us?!”

“We are the most powerful family in Rome! And they treat us like _dogs_ –“

“Not _yet_ , we aren’t! And you’re not _that_ stupid. Why, Kili?”

He allows his expression to melt into one of pure mischief and delight as he leans in close, right into Fili’s personal space, to murmur: “perhaps because it gave you a chance to twirl that pretty ass of yours, bare your claws in public, hm?”

“So help me God, Kili –“

Kili kisses him then, deep and passionate, one arm raised to give them the flimsiest of pretences.

 _God_ has no place between them.

“Or perhaps,” he whispers sensually right against those parted lips, “because I know that every once in a while you just need to save someone.”

\---

“I lied.”

\---

“Twenty thousand florens.” The coin clinks heavily, but to Kili it only sounds hollow.

It’s more than he’s ever carried on his person before, but it’s only a fraction of what he’s parted with already today, since he and Fili were sent on their errands. After all, the conclave has been at it for three weeks now and Thorin is growing impatient; he will have his chair, if he has to have it cast anew in solid gold.

“It’s not enough.” Pietro Orsini - Cardinal Paolo Orsini’s brother - is a calm and practical man, which Kili can appreciate at times like these. No offer of food or drink here, no verbal charades, no grand gestures.

He looks up from where he’s picking at his nails with a dagger.

“We want a Cardinal.”

“Last I checked, you had one.”

“Another.”

It’s bold, Kili will give him that much. It’s perhaps because of that audacity that Kili entertains the idea long enough for the older man to call for someone.

The boy is young, wide eyed and he has the exact same eyebrows as _Cardinal_ Orsini. A _nephew_ , no doubt.

Kili snorts. “I believe it is a requirement that their balls drop first.”

“He’s sixteen!” Pietro challenges heatedly, unwittingly crossing into what Kili considers _his_ territory within the room and finds himself stopped abruptly by a blade at his neck.

“ _Thirteen_ , more like,” Kili growls in his ear.

“Father!“ the boy moves, but Kili’s gaze stops him dead in his tracks.

“Stay back, Vincenzo!”

It’s actually the boy’s voice that makes something shift inside Kili’s chest. Here stands an innocent, guilty of no more at this point, than perhaps groping a servant girl.

Kili used to be that innocent once.

And then they, _his own family_ , brought him like a lamb to the slaughter…

“Besides,” he slowly removes his dagger, “you wouldn’t want the boy to be singing in that beautiful soprano _all_ his life, would you? I hear Cardinal Bennucci actually prefers them that way…”

Something lights up in the younger Orsini brother’s eyes, but Kili cannot afford to acknowledge the mercy he has just shown.

“San Alberto, then.”

He struggles not to show emotion at the mention of a family estate where he’s spent many happy summers as a child. It’s only a modest country villa, but it’s the second closest thing to what Kili considers his home.

“San Alberto is not on offer.”

“It will take San Alberto and perhaps _more besides_ to put a Spaniard on St. Peter’s throne.”

For a moment Kili seethes, a slave to his true and untamed nature, but he’s seen Fili best his blood enough times to learn the trick for himself. Suddenly, where before there was an insult, now an opportunity sits.

“How would you like young Vincenzo here to become the lucky husband to the Princess of Squillace?” he grins.

“You could… arrange such a thing?”

“I will send the messenger straight away. _Should_ the conclave rule in our favour.”

If there was ever a chance of Thorin forgiving him for sabotaging his own marriage match, surely the Papacy is it.

\---

“I have lusted after that which I am not supposed to want.”

\---

He does it on Fili’s bed. Among rumpled silks, a long gone warmth and familiar smell he’s known all his life. His fist is slow and tight, as he imagines Fili out of control – his wildest fantasy, his most obscene obsession. He ruts into the sheets and tortures Fili’s pillows, knuckles white, teeth bared.

The trick is to draw this out, over and over, going through how Fili would move, how he’d snarl and bite and thrash but never set himself free, how he’d hate and love and burn brighter than all the stars in the sky, until it’s so good it actually hurts, but if only he can be patient and _wait_ –

The door slams open with a flash of blade, gone as fast as it appears.

“Get out.”

Kili _almost_ comes then. It’s the voice, the tell-tale catch within it and the steel behind it. This is how Fili is capable of what he’s capable of.

He moans instead like the most wanton whore and opens his legs wider in a blatant invitation.

It’s fury that makes Fili move, come upon him in a flash, his nails digging into the delicate bones of Kili’s wrist where he pins it to the bed, his other hand even tighter in the hair at the back of his scalp.

But he doesn’t kiss cruelly, isn’t capable of _that_.

Instead he steals all of Kili’s breath for himself as if it was the only substance that sustains him; he goes in deep and hungry, full of teeth and passion, and falls, like the angels must have fallen when Lucifer showed them the light.

\---

“I have killed.”

\---

It starts with a rumour; a rumour that one of Fili’s many spies faithfully whispers in his ear.

“God will punish the greed of the imposter; he will turn all his ambition into ash and strike him down where it will hurt him the most.”

Fili leaves in the middle of the mass. He tries to stick to the shadows, but he’s sure his absence is noted.

He’s been a fool - he left his family unprotected, except for –

“Kili!!”

Fili runs through the streets, uncaring of his station, his ornate robes fluttering around his legs.

He knows he’s right the moment he sees the first bloody hand print around the edge of a door. He finds the first slain servant in the dining room; second, on the stair case.

By the time he’s made it to the private part of the residence, the blood and signs of battle can be found everywhere and Fili knows only insanity, grief and unquenchable bloodlust.

He will slay them all; he will _drown_ this fucking city in blood.

Another door – and there, finally, is Kili.

Pale as a sheet, panting heavily, one hand wrapped protectively around his side and clearly favouring his left leg, but still standing, with a bloodied sword aimed at anyone who makes it through the door.

There were four of them, now strewn across the floor in pools of blood over expensive carpets.

Kili fought for his life. And won.

Behind him, their mother is sitting crumpled on the floor, sobbing and cradling in her lap the head of the fifth - a boy no older than sixteen, with a jewel-encrusted dagger buried in his chest all the way to the hilt.

Fili slowly steps closer, takes in the wild look in the familiar, dark eyes, allows the tip of the sword to rest against the hollow of his neck.

 _I should have been here; he shouldn’t have had to do it, neither of them should,_ he thinks viciously, and in that moment the only person he hates more than himself is their uncle, his lust for power putting all their lives at risk.

“Kili…” he murmurs, watches a glimmer of recognition finally flicker in those horribly blown irises, feels his brother’s grip falter.

He doesn’t resist when Fili takes the blade from his hands, or when he moves past him, towards their mother.

He pulls her into his arms, uncaring of the corpse between them, “You’re safe now, Amad. Go and get washed up. They will expect to see you at the parade, and they will be watching closely.”

“You want us to go?! After this –“

“They mustn’t see us weak.”

 _And you mustn’t see Kili like this,_ he doesn’t say, noticing how his brother is beginning to shake. Fili has been raised to be practical in the face of a crisis, to think for himself and, most of all, to _survive_ , but just now –

It takes all of his self-control not to reach out and let both of them break then and there.

“Nori -” he says instead to the assassin hovering discreetly in the doorway, like the ever-present shadow of his master – “dispose of the bodies.” He catches a movement on the floor out of the corner of his eye, lets his voice turn icy, “and find out who sent them.”

He takes Kili’s hand the same way he used to when they were little, chasing each other across sunny vineyards, and pulls him in the direction of his bedroom.

It’s only behind closed doors, in the presence of the one person he trusts unconditionally, that Kili finally allows himself to fall apart. It’s the hands – strong, warm, familiar hands, gently cradling his own shaking ones, their foreheads pressed together as they share their breath, no words necessary between them.

It’s always the little things with Kili, the smallest of gestures, and the quietest of words, that send his heart loving, hating, or both.

\---

"And I have loved. Truly, unconditionally, forever."

\---

Kili rides his brother slowly.

It’s his favourite way to do it: impaled but in control, with Fili pinned down between his thighs, stretched among the messy sheets like a sacrifice to his God.

He does it like this because it gives him an unholy sense of satisfaction; because each time he has to fight for dominance and sometimes, like _this time_ , he wins.

He does it like this because Fili needs to know, always, that he hasn’t forced Kili in any way, that this is a sin that Kili _owns_ and delights in.

He’s slick inside, but tight. He prefers it that way, loves the challenge, the stretch and the lingering ache as Fili’s thick length moves through him. When they first started doing this, Fili tried to be kind, offered him his fingers, but Kili only slapped them away and refused such a mercy.

Kili revels in the burn, like the _flagellati_ revel in the swish of their own whip.

Between them, Kili’s own prick stands proud and flushed as the ultimate proof of his pleasure. On it, Fili’s steady hand slowly moulds that pleasure according to his own desires, far too slow to actually get him off, but intimate in its curiosity and knowledge, yet again putting into question who’s in control of whom.

But this is still Fili – the same Fili who kills, lies, blackmails, seethes in righteous anger, thrives in their rivalry, and sins in thirty different ways till Sunday, and yet, still, somehow, retains the purest of souls, because of the way he _loves_.

And so his other hand cradles Kili’s spine, in the same way it cradles the Eucharist, offers easy strength between his shoulder blades and little scratches of blunt nails, _good_ , like petting a cat.

This is how Kili comes: from that smallest glimpse of undisguised kindness, unwavering support and fierce protectiveness; rare commodities that Fili offers no one else.

His vulnerability feels like rapture. It’s the closest to God Kili has ever been.

\---

“But I have also been cruel.”

\---

“I shall make you a Cardinal.”

The pristine white Papal robe looks wrong on Thorin, who has always been dark, brooding, and with eyes so cold, they are about as close to forgiveness as murder is to sainthood. But if it doesn’t equip him with compassion, at least it gives him power, and power is something Thorin enjoys wielding, so all in all, they expect a reprieve.

“I don’t want to be a Cardinal,” Fili replies levelly, because unlike Kili, he has learned that tantrums, however satisfying, are only guaranteed to get him the opposite of what he wants, and faster.

There’s a loud scoff from the corner, where the younger Borgia brother glowers at the room at large, like only he can. “Yet another honour bestowed upon your pretty little golden head without ever lifting a finger. Oh, the horror!”

Fili ignores him. “I don’t even want to be a priest.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s been decided. There must always be a Borgia Cardinal.”

“You’re not listening. I have no calling, no faith even, and what _morality_ I still possess is slowly but surely being stripped away from me. I do not know who I am or what I stand for any more!”

He doesn’t dare look at Kili; Kili doesn’t know how deep the cracks run.

“You are a _Borgia_!” Thorin’s voice booms in the grand chambers of the Papal palace. “This isn’t about you, Fili! This is about the good of the family and all Christian provinces! It’s about the right leadership –“

“No,” Fili interrupts him. “This is about _you_ , about your legacy, and the slow, but spectacular descent into the deepest, darkest circle of hell!”

But he knows the battle to be lost already, so he walks away, like he’s walked away countless times before.

Kili catches up with him two sets of stairs and a long corridor later, breathless and ready for a fight.

“Why is nothing ever good enough for you?! What other fucking blessing do you want?!”

He wouldn’t bite normally, but Fili is just as ready and just as denied.

“For once, just _once_ I want to achieve things based on my own merit! Things I actually care about! I could lead armies, you _know_ I could! I could protect the people –“

“Oh, we should trade then! Defend Rome, Fili! Manage the plague! And I’ll go about collecting privileges and influence and just _being_ the golden nephew!”

“I pay my own price in lies and betrayals!”

“At least he notices you!”

Nothing comes between them like Thorin does. _Nothing_.

Fili takes a deep breath. “Hate me, if you must. But don’t envy me.”

Unconsciously, Kili mirrors the gesture exactly. “I don’t hate you,” he admits quietly; “I just don’t understand.”

“I never wanted any of this.”

“Then I’ve given you the solution a dozen times over: run away with me!”

“It’s not that simple. He’d find us, and then our shackles would be that much shorter. There isn’t a monarch in Christendom who would give us refuge over the threat of anathema. As for the monarchs outside of Christendom – well, we’d make for some high profile prisoners and a neat excuse for a crusade.”

“So that’s it then: we will never know joy.” Kili huffs.

“One day, perhaps…”

“Not while he’s alive.”

Something about the way he says it makes Fili turn abruptly, only to be met by a pair of dark, intelligent eyes watching him speculatively.

“No. You’re not _that_ , brother.” Silence, profound and terrible. “I couldn’t love _that_ man.”

The words finally make Kili bow his head, but there’s no shame in the gesture. 

“Are you truly unhappy?” he asks quietly instead.

“Most of the time.”

“And with me?”

Fili sighs, looks away to stare at the priceless gallery of sinners pronounced saints. 

“No, not with you,” he whispers honestly. “With you is the only time I feel like _myself_.”

\---

The silence between them is soft and easy now, like the first sunlight pouring in despite drawn curtains to settle down on Kili’s naked skin.

The sacrament of crucifixion is complete.

What words of wisdom or guidance can he possibly offer to such an unburdening of a soul? The scripture is woefully lacking in instructions on how to deal with a heart, _the_ heart, the one dearest, more precious than all God’s graces, wild and true.

Fili sighs, trapped by the dark, cautious eyes, rests his forehead heavily against the screen of the confessional.

“ _I_ forgive you, with all my soul, asking no atonement.” It’s the truth; it will always be their truth, regardless of how thinly stretched Fili feels. But – “As for _God_ , I have no idea. His paths are His own.”

Kili smiles, pushes up a little to press a gentle kiss to his brow, or as close to it as he can. Yet again, it becomes unclear who absolves whom.

“He can keep His forgiveness,” he whispers. “I didn’t ask for it; I only needed yours.”

\---

**Author's Note:**

> [Bonus Fullsize Fili](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/193723/193723_original.png)   
>  [Bonus Fullsize Kili](https://ic.pics.livejournal.com/linane/11800035/193334/193334_original.png)


End file.
